Paper Hearts

  ALSO BY ALI NOVAK

  My Life with the Walter Boys

  The Heartbreakers

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  Copyright © 2017 by Ali Novak

  Cover and internal design © 2017 by Sourcebooks, Inc.

  Cover design by Nicole Komasinski/Sourcebooks, Inc.

  Cover images © OlgaLebedeva/Getty Images; Izabela Habur/Getty Images

  Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks, Inc.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks, Inc.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious and are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Published by Sourcebooks Fire, an imprint of Sourcebooks, Inc.

  P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410

  (630) 961-3900

  Fax: (630) 961-2168

  www.sourcebooks.com

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication data is on file with the publisher.

  Contents

  Front Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  A Sneak Peek of The Heartbreakers

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  About the Author

  Back Cover

  For Jared, the bestest best friend of all the best friends in the history of friendships and, more importantly, the love of my life. Thank you for being with me every step of the way.

  Chapter 1

  Today was my sister’s birthday, and I was praying that this year, by some miracle, my mother would forget. She hadn’t said anything this morning when I was pouring my cereal—no mention of watching Rose’s favorite movies or going to Vine & Dine for dinner like she usually insisted—and I took that as a sign my prayers had been answered.

  They hadn’t.

  Instead, when I got home from volunteering, there was a red velvet cupcake sitting on the table alongside a card Rose would never read. I’m not a religious person, so it made sense that my request to whoever was up above had gone unanswered, but I still grumbled to myself as I dumped my bag on the nearest chair.

  I took a deep breath. “MOM!”

  It was quiet for a moment, but then I heard a drawer slam in her small bedroom off the kitchen. Two seconds later, the door swung open.

  “Hi, honey!” Mom had a towel wrapped around her blond hair, and she was wearing a facial mask and the bathrobe I got her for Christmas two years ago. She hobbled into the room, and that’s when I spotted the foam toe separators. My eyebrows went up. Mom only painted her nails for date nights with her boyfriend, Dave.

  Okay, maybe this birthday situation isn’t as bad as I originally thought.

  “How was the diner? Make lots of tips?”

  “Mom, I gave up my shift this weekend. I told you that yesterday.” Saturdays and Sundays were my best tip days, so she must have been thinking a lot about Rose if she’d tuned out our conversation. Or she was excited for wherever Dave was taking her. Hopefully the latter. “The Children’s Cancer Alliance has a huge charity event tonight, remember? I helped with the setup this morning.”

  “I don’t understand why you’re wasting time working for free,” she said. “You need cash, not good karma.” Her bottom lip caught between her teeth in a way that said I was making a monumental mistake. She was always concerned when it came to money. An unknown relative could will her a massive fortune, she could win the freaking lottery, and she would still be counting pennies. Of course, after Dad left her with nothing, I couldn’t blame her.

  “If I want to earn a scholarship, then I need volunteer hours on my college application,” I said, my voice tight. There was a rigid feeling in my jaw, and I made a conscious effort to unclench it and not snap at her. We’d gone over this a thousand times before, but she had yet to see how sacrificing a few hours at the diner now would benefit me down the road.

  For the past four years, my heart had been set on attending Stanford. But Mom could hardly keep up with the bills at home, so I knew I’d have to scrape together the money for college on my own. That meant I needed scholarships—lots of them. What better way to beef up my applications than by volunteering for a charity? Mom thought I could pay for my schooling by working at the diner, but no number of shifts would cover the hefty forty-five grand per year that I’d owe, not including housing.

  Whenever we argued about tuition costs, Mom would bring up the educational trust funds she and my dad had set up for us before the split. One for Rose, and one for me. She acted like mine would solve all my problems, but there was only enough money to get through a single semester of school, not the eight it would take to graduate. It wasn’t that I was ungrateful, but if I was responsible for financing my education, I had to look at the bigger picture. Because I definitely didn’t want to spend the rest of my life buried in student debt.

  You didn’t call her out here to fight about money, I reminded myself. School—more specifically how I was going to pay for it—was a frequent argument between us, so it was no surprise that I’d been easily sidetracked.

  “But I still think—”

  “What’s with the cupcake?” I asked, changing the subject.

  “Felicity, not this again.” Mom crossed her arms and looked at me with narrowed eyes. The green face mask made her attempt at Stern Mom amusing. She’d never been good at disciplining Rose and me growing up, not that I needed a firm hand. I was what she called the perfect kid, all smiles and obedience. Rose was the opposite, a rebellious wild child who could tear through a room like Taz from Looney Tunes, leaving behind a wake of toys and juice stains.

  When we got older, things didn’t change. I followed the house rules, while Teenage Rose would steamroll Mom with one sassy comeback, then sneak out of the house to hook up in the backseat of her boyfriend-of-the-moment’s car—on a weeknight, no less.

  “Just because you refuse to celebrate doesn’t mean that I shouldn’t,” she said.

  “Someone has to be present to celebrate their birthday.” This particular conversation always had a way of exhausting me, as if each word zapped away my energy. For a moment, I allowed myself to remember the last time I was actually excited for July 23. How the night before I’d painstakingly wrapped Rose’s gift—a scrapbook of us I’d spent months making—and placed it alongside my mom’s present on the kitchen table, chest swell
ing with pride. Then there was the cold, nauseous feeling of finding her bed empty the next morning. “Rose is gone, Mom. It’s been four years.”

  My mom’s face dropped.

  She looked so heartbroken that I felt like a mother who needed to console her hurting child, as if the roles between us were reversed. But then I glanced at the cupcake again. It was one of those expensive-looking ones—complete with a mound of swirled frosting and red sprinkles—that could only be ordered at the fancy upscale bakery across the street from where Mom worked. The stupid thing probably cost her more than five dollars, and tomorrow, when nobody had eaten it, the cupcake would be tossed in the trash.

  “Felicity,” she started, blinking her eyes to blot out oncoming tears.

  “Please don’t,” I said, holding up a hand. I should have known mentioning the damn cupcake was a bad idea. Mom liked to mourn Rose as if she’d died, but I wouldn’t grieve for someone who’d abandoned me. “Forget I brought it up, okay?”

  The look on Mom’s face changed. She stared at me as if I had betrayed our family. But I wasn’t the one who’d decided she didn’t need us anymore. I wasn’t the one who ran away and disappeared forever.

  “Asha is picking me up at four,” I finally said, breaking our stiff silence. “I have to get ready.”

  I could feel my mom’s gaze as I retreated, so I threw my shoulders back and pretended everything was fine. In reality, my eyelids were hot and my chest was heavy, but I waited until my door was closed before collapsing on my bed and allowing myself to cry.

  • • •

  Later that evening, after I covered my blotchiness and puffy eyes with a layer of foundation, there was no trace of my breakdown. Getting out of the house helped too. There was something colorful and lively about West Hollywood that helped me forget how much I hated my sister’s birthday or, as I referred to it, Desertion Day.

  “This is beyond pointless,” Asha said. She was leaning against the coat check counter, chin propped in her hand. When she let out a disgruntled sigh, her bangs puffed up like a feather caught in an updraft. “We’re wasting our time.”

  By this point in our friendship, I’d learned to ignore my best friend’s constant grumbling. Complaining was something of a hobby for Asha, a way to pass time when she was bored. Still, I cocked my head in question.

  How could she not be excited?

  Even after the fight I had with Mom earlier, I was buzzing with anticipation. Tonight was the biggest fund-raiser of the season—the Children’s Cancer Alliance masquerade ball. The most affluent of California would be in attendance, from CEOs to Hollywood stars. There was even a rumor that Beyoncé would be making an appearance, and while I doubted anyone as A-list as she would show up, there would still be a few celebrities in attendance.

  For the past month, Asha and I had been working as interns at the CCA. Most of our time was spent calling donors, writing newsletters, and running errands, but today we were in charge of manning the coat check. Our shift was ending soon, and after so many hours spent preparing for this event, I was dying to put on a mask and join the party.

  “Nobody is wearing a jacket,” Asha continued. “It’s disgusting outside.”

  She had me there. Los Angeles was in the midst of a heat wave, and this morning while I was scarfing down a bowl of Wheaties, the Channel 7 weatherman had reported that the city was experiencing some of the highest recorded temperatures since the nineties. As a result, coat check duty was, as Asha had said, pointless. Not that I minded. The coatroom adjoined the lobby, so if I leaned far enough to the left and craned my neck, I could watch guests arrive off the red carpet. I’d planned to use the downtime to study, but my ACT prep book lay forgotten on the counter in front of me.

  “Lighten up, will you?” I said. “This is supposed to be fun.”

  “Fun?” Asha gestured to the empty room around us. “You have a pretty screwed-up concept of the word.”

  Before I could respond, there was a flutter of movement on the edge of my vision—another guest! I reeled around fast enough to put a kink in my neck, but I only managed to see a flash of tuxedo and blond hair. Judging by the growing commotion, whoever had arrived was important, but there were too many people blocking my line of sight to see who. Just as I was about to turn back to Asha, a tall woman with a pixie cut stepped out from the crowd and made her way in our direction. Even with her mask on, I immediately recognized her as Sandra Hogan, our boss.

  “Look,” I said, nodding toward her. “Maybe Sandra is cutting us loose early. We could catch the tail end of cocktail hour!” A half grin spread on my lips, but I contained the smile before my excitement grew out of control. There was no guarantee that Sandra would let us attend the ball after our shift.

  Using a single finger, Asha twirled her phone in circles on the countertop. “You say that like you plan on staying.”

  My head jerked up. “Don’t you?”

  “Definitely not,” she said, her nose wrinkling. “As soon as we’re done, I’m heading home.”

  “Aw, come on,” I complained, my gaze still focused on our boss. Sandra paused in the lobby to talk to one of the guests, and my shoulders slumped. Maybe we weren’t being let off early after all. Still, I said, “You can’t leave early. You’re my ride.”

  “Sorry, Felicity.” Asha shrugged halfheartedly. “I have a date with my computer. We’re going to spend a long, romantic evening on Tumblr.”

  That was no surprise. Asha had been obsessed with Tumblr ever since her fandom blog about Immortal Nights, the hit TV show, went viral. Nowadays, she spent more of her free time creating memes and reblogging GIFs of the actors than interacting with actual people. In fact, that was why she was volunteering for the CCA. Asha’s mom had gotten so fed up with her daughter’s antisocial behavior that she made her get a summer job. Not wanting to work the local Dairy Dream drive-through or sort shoes at the bowling alley, Asha opted to volunteer with me. And as long as it got her out of the house, Mrs. Van de Berg didn’t care what Asha did.

  “Seriously?” I asked. “Don’t you want to see how the party turns out?”

  Asha scoffed. “I have no intention of spending my night with a bunch of stuffy socialites.”

  “But it’s a masquerade ball.” Beautiful people, gorgeous dresses, music, and dancing—what wasn’t to love?

  “And?” Asha said, snatching her phone. She pressed a few buttons and set it back down. Three seconds later, a soft melody started playing. The music wasn’t loud—we’d get in trouble if we disturbed the cocktail reception—but there was just enough volume for me to recognize the opening lyrics of “Astrophil,” the latest hit from the world-famous boy band the Heartbreakers. If there was one thing that Asha was more obsessed with than Immortal Nights or Tumblr, it was them.

  After listening to the first few verses, I sighed and answered her question. “And the event’s going to be glamorous, obviously.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Yes, and I’m the epitome of glamour.”

  Okay, maybe my best friend wasn’t known for being fashionable. Her normal school attire consisted of yoga pants and T-shirts. And since all the CCA volunteers were required to meet the black-tie dress code, she’d spent three days panicking about what to wear. In the end, she decided on her mother’s traditional silk sari, which looked a whole lot better than the getup I’d thrown together.

  While I loved wearing dresses, my closet was filled with floral-patterned cotton ensembles that I bought at thrift shops, not ball gowns. I didn’t own any formal wear, not even a prom dress. Last semester when I went to the dance, I borrowed my next-door neighbor’s in order to save money.

  So yesterday morning when I still didn’t have an outfit for the fund-raiser, I took the bus to the mall and tore through the sales rack at Macy’s. I managed to find a pink, floor-length A-line that didn’t clash with my red hair and only had a few ruffles. The price was under
a hundred bucks, but I had to dip into the money I’d been saving for college to purchase it. And that meant passing on a new pair of heels and cramming my feet into the pumps I wore for eighth-grade graduation.

  “We’re already dressed up,” I said. “Besides, aren’t you the least bit curious to see if anyone exciting comes? What if Gabe Grant shows up?”

  That got Asha’s attention.

  “He won’t show,” she said, but from the look in her eyes, I knew she was second-guessing her decision to leave. Gabe Grant, Asha’s biggest celebrity crush, played the sexy werewolf warrior Luca on Immortal Nights. She only had about fifty shirtless posters of him taped to her bedroom walls.

  “You never know,” I singsonged, wiggling my eyebrows suggestively. “How upset would you be if you went home and he ended up coming?” Asha pursed her lips in consideration, so I ambushed her with my best pout. “Please?”

  “Okay, okay. You win,” she said. “But we’re only staying for a little bit. Long enough to survey the ballroom and see who’s here. Then we’re gone.” She turned away. And her avoiding eye contact was the only hint I needed to figure out she wasn’t staying because of Gabe.

  Asha knew that today was Desertion Day and, more importantly, how much I hated it. That she would stay to keep my mind off Rose made me want to cry, but in a good way, because let’s face it: the chance of Gabe Grant coming to the ball was nonexistent. This was something she was doing solely for me. More girls seriously needed BFFs of Asha’s standards.

  “Yes!” I kissed her on the cheek. “Have I mentioned lately that you’re the bestest best friend of all the best friends in the history of friendships?”

  “Keep laying it on. You owe me.”

  “How’s it going back here, ladies?” Sandra asked, and I jumped at the sound of her voice. Somehow, in the midst of our conversation, she’d made her way over without me noticing.

  “Fabulous.” Asha’s voice was drenched in sarcasm. “We’ve checked a grand total of zero coats, but we did point a few people in the direction of the bathroom.”